I am now deeply enmeshed in the story I am trying to write. Last week I decided, on Thursday, to begin writing the fiction that I am constantly talking about writing. While writing fiction is exponentially difficult for me in some ways, it was much easier to start than one would think.
You simply begin. You just start writing the first sentence that comes to mind, and keep going until you get stumped. Then, sometimes you have to walk away for a few minutes or hours or even days. I have not yet experienced needing to walk away for months or years. I think that terrifies me.
When you come back (from walking away), you sometimes are able to start right back where you left off. Other times you scroll down a bit, until there is nothing but blank white canvas, and you begin another part of the story, or you describe something. Sometimes you look something up to make sure you have the right definition or word.
Still other times, you wander around aimlessly on Facebook for awhile, searching for inspiration, reading status updates and wasting hours down long, meandering rabbit trails of life while the laundry sits neglected and the scones you were going to make for the kid's afternoon snack stay uncreated...at least for one more day. Sigh.
It is different from writing a blog. With a blog I am just writing myself, and since I inhabit myself and think my thoughts and conduct myself accordingly, it isn't as hard (for me) to tell that story as it is to tell another story using my self as a guinea pig. I put myself in some else's shoes in writing fiction, and try those shoes out for an entire journey. It seems exhausting and I have no idea if there's any true ability inside of me to do this, but I find that I must know if there is. Even if I fail. I just need to try it and know.
I'm glad I began doing this.
While the easy part is beginning just the once, one of the hard parts is beginning every day, anew. Beginning again in my commitment, goal, gift, and ultimately the freshly baked mercies of God, I set out each day to devote at least part of my thoughts, to the telling of a truth by way of a story.
Another hard part is the crafting. I know what I want to say, but saying it, oh how tricky that can be. And isn't is profound to think that how something is said can make all the difference in the weight of it's message? The way something is said has almost everything to do with almost everything.
The entire attorney population probes this mystery every day.
It is not what you say but how you say it.
It's also hard to craft a story without unveiling the blatant. But many good stories are buried under a layer of parable, in the vehicle of wit and wearing the clothing of apt description.
The other obstacle I'm running into is scheduling time to write. I'm going to need to have days to write fiction and days to write on my blog, days to make cards, cook elaborate meals, days to sew and paint and make soap and garden...oh you know. I love structure, which helps me to truly feel an artist, because if everything in my life has its place, with God and my family being first and my art being second, in my eyes that is peaceful and truly beautiful. I am able to weave creatively on the loom of structure.
I'll end this ramble with this. I went to my new writer's group last week, and I had been writing my story for two days by then. One of the leaders was talking about a writing magazine that she liked. She opened it up to the middle to show us a sampling of their articles and what do you know, the title of that article was "How to Write a Great Chapter One". I took it as confirmation. I took it as guidance and direction and as that tiny little dry wittish way that God loves to speak to me in the normal, seemingly coincidental moments of life. He's so good at inside jokes. He was telling me that I am right where I'm supposed to be, that I need all the help that I can get, and that He's a part of every detail.
Or maybe that I'm a detail of His parts? My soul rises up in hope that I could ever contribute to the Great literary Conversation.
Either way, I'm glad I'm doing the write thing.
I am incapable of writing short blog posts.
However, here goes nothing.
I'm beginning.
I kept rereading the post I did yesterday, certain there was something I had missed, because it wouldn't leave me alone. It haunted me all night, in fact, I dreamed about it, abruptly sitting up in bed at 2am-ish, staring into the inky blackness in front of my face, waiting for the revelation to come. What was the message I had missed?
Nothing happened.
So I swung my legs out over the side of the bed, answered "nothing Rosey" to Derek's mumbled "MMffmmhum", and went to check on the kids. Often I wake up in the night, knowing to pray for someone or feeling strange and needing to check that my kids are okay, or even just with the intense desire to read the next chapter in a particularly engrossing book.
I made my way down the hall, checked to see that everyone was in bed with covers on, reassured myself that they were still breathing (yes, I'm one of those moms) and then found myself standing in front of the thermostat, squinting at the temperature and trying to decide whether or not I should add or subtract a degree of heat on such a cold night. Hmmmmm...
And that's when the idea popped into my brain.
All this time I'm spending writing blog posts about writing books. I think I'll just write a book.
So I'm beginning.
I'll start with an idea I have for a story and let's see where it goes. Now that was a profound sentence to type. Witness me summoning my bravery...
Why am I telling you all of this? I think I just want it documented that I will do the hardest thing there is for me, and begin.
Okay, I know I said the shortest post ever. Sorry.
But you know me. I was born to write chapters, not short posts.
So, on that note, I'll keep you posted. Hee hee, get it? Posted?
Nevermind.
Here goes nothing.
Chapter 1...
I'm a pretty competitive person. Not with things I stink at, like dancing, singing, making people laugh or doing my hair (see photo at left). But with things I love and feel gifted to do, like making things with my hands, cooking and writing. Even with a definite awareness of what I am and am not gifted to do, I kind of get lost sometimes in the competition of something and lose sight of the actual purpose for the actions. I forget the reason for the gift.
Take writing, for example. I started a blog in order to practice writing. I lacked discipline and needed a good excuse to write regularly. This is where you, the reader, come in. I needed an audience. I know. It's weak. Any real writer worth their salt wouldn't need the affirmation and presence of actual human beings as witness to the mundane process of honing one's hoped for ability to truly write and not just regurgitate the ideas of books one is reading, but I guess I'm willing to stand in that lighting, of weakness and the constant human need for reassurance.
Still, there are those times, and I'm ashamed to admit how regular they are, that my competitive nature raises its ugly head and roars, leaping eagerly to the fray, in the attempt of putting someone in their place and hopefully, showing them up.
With blogging, I have naturally been more interested in the blogs that are out there that I never really noticed, in much the same way that you don't see lots of pregnant women until you are pregnant and then voila! Everyone is pregnant. Well, everyone has a blog. Which makes my natural inclinations for wanting to be the best start to flex their muscles. I start to measure myself against everyone else, reading and analyzing what other people are offering to the world by way of cyber thought, and try to figure out how to beat them. I forget the whole point of everything. I begin to put all of my energy into the competition, racking my brain for new ideas and new ways to draw folks in, instead of focusing on the message. And simplicity.
Furthermore, I begin to compromise on my particular style of writing, trying to cram myself into a shape that doesn't work for me and, let's face it, I've never been too good at cramming myself into anything. Buttons pop. Seams rip. The fat rolls are even more grotesquely illuminated. Because I'm not letting me be me.
I didn't create me. God did. And I wish I was cool, I really do. Gosh, I wish I was cool, this ultra trendy, fashionable maven with a ready artillery of amazing topics to wax expert on, and lots of cheering fans. But I'm not. Most of the time I have trouble having a real conversation with "cool" people. Not to say that cool people aren't cool and all, but we just aren't super compatible. They think I'm kind of strange. And I am kind of strange. I'd rather take a class about how to raise bees and goats, talk about 18th century poetry, read Jane Austen, or ponder the metaphorical impact of the movie Inception than discuss The Bachelor, fall in literary love with Edward or Jake in the Twilight series, know what kind of red wine to serve at a party or watch Dancing with the Stars. Nothing wrong with any of those things, and I read the entire Twilight series to see what all the fuss was (and was a bit disappointed - book three is the best), but they're just not my bag.
Coolness was not part of God's plan for me.
I'm kind of a nerd. And a little bit of a dork. And my writing style thus far can sort of be seen by more cynical folk as sort of cheesy. Derek makes me look cool, if I'm being quiet, for about five minutes, because he's cool, but then I open my mouth and the cat's out of the bag. So I've got to keep this in mind when I write. I know it's not bad to to learn new tricks, and to hone and pare down my paragraphs, to better my vocabulary and grammar, or to learn the art of brevity, something I really stink at. Sometimes its necessary to change it up, to go a different direction, to seek inspiration in an unconventional way. But fundamentally, I'm being a coward when I refuse to stay true to who I am as a writer.
There's nothing worse than being known as a fraud, someone who pretends.
So this is what I've got to do. I need to realize that it's not a cop out to say that for me, blogging is practice. I'm not out to have a gazillion followers and write amazing short renditions of home decor or epiphanies I have while checking the mail. I have no ability, yet, to write anything short, except recipes, and they usually take half the day to make. With blogging for you, I am simply practicing, working out my writing muscles, seeing if this dirt road could actually become a highway one day. Writing a respectable book is the goal, and hopefully, writing some noble fiction for teens.
I'm not going to compete with cyber space. I'm going to be thankful for the gift God has given me to write, even if its not Pulitzer Prize, Newberry Medal or New York Times Bestseller List worthy, and I'm going to use it. I'm going to give it my best shot and I'm going to pray. Each time I write I'm going to close my eyes and surrender the gift to the One who bestowed it, hoping that He can find some use for it in the lives of others and that maybe someday a publishing company agrees with Him.
And I'm going to be happy for my fellow bloggers, whose amazing feats never cease and who I really should be thankful for, since they push me to greater heights and stretch me in my own abilities, while throwing in some cool home decor tips and mailbox epiphanies.
I refuse to be jealous of someone else's gift. Jealousy is equivalent to ingratitude.
So this is what I'll change. I'll be grateful. I'll be supportive of others and their gifts.
I won't artificially change myself to be less or more.
But I'll change my less and more to be true to myself.
What about you?
I write this, sitting on my bed, which sits at a 45 degree angle from the corner of my room, and allows me a perfect view of the backyard.
It is snowing.
The whole world is lost in a dusty whirl of snowflakes. There are just a few right now, but the day holds the weatherman's promise of heavier snow later today and tonight.
The snow is causing me to remember the post I keep wanting to write about seasons.
All my life I have wanted to live in a place with four seasons. I can't remember a time when I haven't wanted to see the changing of the leaves in autumn or the falling of snow in winter. I have loved living in Florida but have always wanted to end up in a place where contrasts were seen throughout the year, in the same trees having and then not having leaves, the grass being green and then brown, the air being warm and then cold, and all of the in betweens. I don't think I have a favorite season. I think my favorite part of each season is the beginning, when it starts to look like itself and unlike the last season. Each season, spring, summer, fall and winter, has its own distinct face and personality, and after living here for a full year now, I feel that we've been properly introduced.
Physical seasons always invite me to ponder spiritual seasons.
Recently, as I was in Florida over the Christmas holidays and spent some time with my friends there, I became very interested in the topic that kept coming up in different circles of friends. As I spent time with different girlfriends, eating dinner at restaurants, shopping and getting coffee together, we kept discussing the seasons of motherhood.
Like how you'll go through a season of the baby biting, or the toddler throwing temper tantrums, or even major sleep deprivation from the newborn's messed up sleep schedule, and you think it will never end and can't wait for it to do so. You pray for the end of those seasons. Much like I think most people pray for the end of winter, and smile holistically at the first signals of spring.
Beyond motherhood, there are many seasons we pray to see the end of, aren't there? When your husband is in school and working full time, or there are more bills than money at the end of the month, or a loved one is very ill or in danger.
Then there are those seasons that you want never to end.
The seasons that make you feel special, alive, young and needed. For me, one of those seasons was Saturday morning snuggle time. When the kids were tiny, almost every Saturday morning that we didn't have to be somewhere or Derek didn't have to work, we would sleep in and the kids would get out of their beds in the morning (or be freed from their crib) and they'd come climbing up into our bed to snuggle. Usually we'd lay there for awhile, all toasty warm, having silly conversations and tickling each other, and this would turn into wrestling with Daddy, while I dreamed up what I wanted to make for breakfast. Derek would make coffee and I would engage the kids in helping me with breakfast, which, since I like to cook, would usually be something yummy from scratch.
I have pictures of those Saturday mornings in my scrapbooks, photos that capture the fun and creativity of those moments in the kitchen, my family and me making scones, crepes, omelets, fresh bread, fruit salad and muffins together, usually in our pajamas. I look like a mad scientist with my morning hair and there is usually flour or food residue on at least one face in these photographs. There was almost always singing and dancing, and since Derek and I have different taste in morning music, whoever got to the CD player first got first dibs on what was going to be played.
We would cook and dance to Louis Armstrong, Anberlin, Taylor Swift or Michael Buble' (my picks), or Squad Five-0, Matt Redman, Tom Petty or Led Zeppelin (Derek's picks). Some of the heated debates over what everyone wanted to listen to and furthermore, what kind of berries to put in the scones, seem ridiculous now.
But they are among my most cherished memories of the times our family spent together when the kids were babies and toddlers.
That was just one of the seasons that was, for me, very hard to say goodbye to.
Of course, we still have Saturday mornings together, and we all listen to music, dance, and cook together all the time. But no one (besides Derek) is ever really interested in crawling up into bed with me anymore, and rubbing a cold nose up against my cheek, because there are cartoons and Legos, light sabers and a puppy to play with immediately upon waking up on Saturday morning. I usually sleep in and Derek usually makes breakfast now, either his fabulous pancakes or cheesy eggs. It's different.
It's not bad. It's just the natural progression of things.
But it's still hard to say goodbye to the really sweet seasons that I know must healthily be replaced with their betters.
That's right. I said betters.
As mothers, or even just as parents, it's sometimes hard for us to imagine that the next season could be better than the current one, or that the sweet, snugly season we enjoyed so perfectly could ever be outshone. We tend to think that as our children grow up, the sweetness and level of fulfillment in parenthood will deteriorate. But I'm finding that it's not true.
One of my verses for 2010 and 2011, Isaiah 43:18-19 is deeply reassuring:
"Do not remember the former things,
Nor consider the things of old.
Behold, I will do a new thing,
Now it shall spring forth;
Shall you not know it?
I will even make a road in the wilderness
And rivers in the desert."
A new thing. Springing forth. Forgetting the former, losing interest in the old. Pushing forward, to the road He is carving in the wilderness, to the place of saturated life He is filling in the desert.
And the future can sometimes seem very desert-like, can't it? We don't know what to expect and we think it could never be better than this. How could it?
But what hope in this scripture! Not just that God wants to give us new fun and life at every bend in the road, but that He intends to do it.
As I spent time with my friends on one particular night, some very special mom friends I met and grew close to while in the early trenches of motherhood, we decided to walk from Kohl's to a frozen yogurt place, and while we walked we kept talking about saying farewell to the beautiful seasons of motherhood. One of us started up in song, being joined by some of the others after the first few words, "Oh, it's so hard to say goodbye to yesterday...."
I bet Boys II Men never realized their target audience should have been all the nostalgic mothers out there. Forget screaming, hyperventilating teeny boppers...
I'm not saying I'm good at moving on into the new. In my life, in every category, not just motherhood, it's at the bend in the road that I stop and hesitate, unsure of how to proceed, and let's just be honest, unwilling to move on, full of bittersweet reluctance, and with the tears wet on my cheeks. I have trouble trusting that what is to come will always outweigh, outshine, outsmart, outfill what has gone. It is a conflict of the mind and heart.
My mind knows it to be true.
Life was meant to be ever-increasingly fulfilling.
My heart longs to hold on, staying put in the warmth and glow of spring and summer.
But fall and winter have their own lessons to teach me, and spring and summer will be all the more greener and lush with the knowledge of those harder, and hardier, lessons. God builds, with seasons, the knowledge of His faithfulness in our lives, and the latter lessons that we are not ready to embrace until we have experienced the former.
What is the season you are saying goodbye to?
Maybe it's as simple as bidding adieu to the old year and embracing the new. Maybe it's a change in diet, or schedule, an addition of discipline into your already busy life. Maybe its the busy pace you are used to, that must be traded in for something a little more substantial and purposeful.
Or maybe you just need to come to terms with the forever closing of a particularly special chapter, one that has made you feel so very full of life. I exhort you to say goodbye. Stand at the bend in your road, knowing the scenery that you've smiled upon for these last months or years to be passing quickly out of view, hold that season dear and close for one more moment, and then let go. Open your hands, turn your back, and walk forward into the promising days to come.
Letting go of the old.
Knowing He is always up to something new.
When it happened, I was in the preliminary stages of a bad attitude.
You know the kind. One of those nasty, I'm mad at the world and so misunderstood, not to mention undeserving of all of these trials, and furthermore, if I had it my way...blah blah blah.
One of those attitudes.
And there was actually no reason for the change of perspective that seemed to be sweeping over me almost involuntarily. Life was good. We had been living in Tulsa for about ten months. I had just finished having coffee with a new acquaintance, a really nice woman and fellow mom that seemed to have major friend potential, fall was fully present all around me in a glorious display of color, and my family was thriving. But for whatever reason, hormones or lack of sleep (not for something justifiable like having a newborn or a sick child, but because I like to stay up until all hours of the night reading or being crafty when I really should be in bed) or even just because I was feeling a little lonely, my perspective had started to change, throwing up red flags and warning signs throughout the whole day.
It started in the morning when I woke up kind of blue and tried to make myself feel better by yelling at my daughter for not brushing her hair the right way. When she had tried her best and after all, isn't that what mothers are for? To help you with your hair when your little arms are too tired to get all the tangles out?
Then I got annoyed with the girl who rang me up at CVS and I was unaccountably snappish with her. Over chapstick.
Then there was the road rage in the early afternoon. Someone cut me off and instead of shaking my head and smiling sarcastically like I normally do, I shouted "What the heck!" at my windshield, throwing both hands up in the air, hoping the other driver saw me and my apparent I'm not gonna take nothing from nobody spunk. Worse still, the kids were in the car and in the middle of telling me about their day. Not that I was listening or anything. I was full of me-ness. Me. Me. Me. It's all about me.
So when Derek unintentionally and apologetically came home late from work, I freaked out. Instead of being grateful that he has such a good job, which goes hand in hand with needing to stay a bit late from time to time, or being so very happy that he never has to work weekends like he used to and almost always is home by 5:30, like he never used to be. The minute he walked in the door, I attacked, going on and on about being on time and being inconsiderate and food burning in the oven and so on. When I don't even have to work. He has never asked me to get a job. He has always thought it a grand idea for me to stay home with my kids if I wanted to. And he's never late.
So the day had been bad. I was working quite energetically toward Jerk of the Week status.
I think you know what I mean.
Most of us go insane from time to time, calling our very greatest blessings burdens, or worse, curses.
I think many of us struggle with depression from time to time too, although it seems to have a stigma of embarrassment that surrounds the admittance of it, which I think further alienates us from each other and the comfort we are meant to give and receive.
So after my poor children were in bed I went to coffee with a new chum and successfully mastered what I call the fake-out. I was sweet, witty and fun. I discussed my life lightheartedly, with depth and humor. I asked friendly questions and grinned from ear to ear. It was an Oscar-worthy performance. You would have never known I was seriously struggling, inexplicably so, with depression, ingratitude and anger.
Then I got back in my car and began to sink back down down down into the doldrums of depression, forgetting the ever present help in time of need that is promised to me (Ps. 46:1) and casually throwing aside the promise that I am never left, never forsaken, loved more than I can humanly comprehend and chased. I am chased, pursued like I'm completely lovely. No matter where I go, who I become in error, or what I decide in foolishness, Psalm 139 assures me that I can never escape the care and love of God. No matter what. Nothing separates me from His love.
Not even unfounded depression.
As I drove down 71st toward home, lost in grayness and quiet, full of dark inward contemplation, a light rain began to fall. The soggy lights of storefronts and restaurants whizzed past my car windows, distant in their light and cheeriness, the leaves falling off the trees whirled aimlessly down into the night and became mush under the wet tires of my car and the very air seemed to press down on me, exacting pressure toward my joy, causing me to feel a domino effect of sadness to the very marrow of my soul.
And then I saw it.
As I drove past the sign, it looked like someone had been in the middle of changing out the message and had given up halfway. The letters to the three words remaining were all askew, one letter even dangling. Perhaps the letter changer had been caught in the rain? Each word was on a different row of the sign, and with no symmetry, causing my eyes to instantly assume that whatever the message would be, it was in no way complete. It was a church sign, something old and made of brick with the white section for a message and the black letters that fit into the tracks on the top and bottom of each row. It was set out by the road, dimly lit in the rainy night, the accompanying building behind it dark and unoccupied. The three words remaining, in no regular manner were: It Gets Better.
It took a minute for the words to hit me, so lost was I in the quicksand of self-pity.
And then hit me it did, like a slap in the face.
On so many levels.
It Gets Better.
For me. That message was for me. It was intended for me to see as I drove home from something as hopeful as a new friendship, but with a poisonous attitude. How often has God's voice been so blatant in my life, reaching across supernatural mystery and the beauty of Creation, surpassing the sovereignty that I never understand and delivering a simple message. To me. In English.
How apt to single me out with three little words. And so full of grace, this message from Heaven. Call it what you want, but goosebumps travelled from my scalp to my toenails, as I experienced the personal kindness of God, complete with a sense of humor to interrupt my descent into the world of woe is me.
You see, I have been given one of my heart's desires in living here in Tulsa. And not only that, but the whole thing has been easy. Too easy. Supernaturally easy. There's the job Derek was able to get - and he loves it, the wonderful school we found for our children, the church we accidentally landed in that is perfect for us, the house we rented sight unseen and how it ended up being so right for our family, the timing of it all. Every detail of our transition here has been peaceful and joyous and exciting. There are the distinct fingerprints of God all over it.
So I should have known by then, as I drove home, that He has a plan. He knows exactly what I need. Jeremiah 29:11 tells me "For I know the plans I have for you,” declares the Lord, “plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future." All I must do is trust and follow, knowing that His plans for me will fit me perfectly, make me smile, laugh and sing, and will ultimately change me into a beautiful representation of His life and love.
It's true.
And those were the three words I needed that night. It was the only pick me up that would work. He spoke to me like a small child, petting my hair and crooning it gets better. He spoke to me like a coach, causing me to buck up and snap out of it with it gets better. He spoke to me as the planner of my future, the keeper of my dreams, assuring me that it gets better. And he spoke to me as a writer, infusing my imagination with the hope of a life that boasts a good plot. The It Gets Better sequence. Unless you're sadistic, I can't imagine a much better plot for one's life.
Pulling into my drive that night, I was freshly invigorated and ready to apologize. I jumped out of the car and raced into the house to share my experience with Derek. I had new eyes to see the great bounty that had been heaped in my lap, undeservedly. And God had spoken to me in a new way. He used a silly haphazard church sign in the middle of construction to speak simple truth to my heart like healing balm.
Maybe it's the truth you needed to hear too.
Such nourishment was not meant for me alone.
Know it to be true. The future trumps the past. God's plans for you are wondrous. And daily. They involve the ordinary, mundane things of life and they point the way to an extraordinary perspective. All of life takes on full color in the shadow of those great wings.
As you drive along, perhaps in the rain, with the scenery of your life flashing by, look up and see the sign.
It gets better.
